I woke up from a decent nap with a startle. Prison habit, where even pure silence could jerk me awake.

A glance at the window showed the full moon. Night had just begun. My desire to check on the orc situation urged me outside.

I might even get my dagger back. I grabbed my new, empty backpack and my staff.

I walked to the outskirts of the mining camp to see if I could extract any new info, but there was only a bored-looking military officer standing guard with a regular spear and a horn. Are they all out of guns and walkie-talkies?

On the scaffolds of the mine, half-broken Christmas lights lit the scene. Below, on the ground, were glowing stones. It’s not even Christmas. I shook my head and bent down to inspect it.

I hovered my hand over the stone for a second and then laid my palm on it. Cool to the touch. I looked around, wondering if I could take one without anyone noticing.

Opposite of the tents lined near the mountain, somebody in a cloak and hood sat by a real campfire, not those barrel fires, trying to warm himself.

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His dark cloak glistened dew and reflected the fire slightly, giving him a halo that made him look ethereal and otherworldly.

I didn't mean to stare, but the stranger was staring at me as well, and I was pinned by his gaze. An air of danger hung above this stranger just like his cloak hugged his body.

For as long as I looked at him, he never blinked. With a fierce gaze, his painted eyes had an intensity—his black eyes steady and strong as if he was looking right through me. Like shattering glass, I broke out of the trance and backed up slowly to avoid the dangerous sharp edges.

The outer ring of his eyes rimmed in darkness like black eyeshadow. Why did his eyes follow me whenever I took a step in any direction?

Hunger in his piercing eyes intensified and he reached into his cloak, stopping me in my tracks.

I knew that you should avoid people with this eagerness spilling all over from them. It was like this sticky door-to-door salesman who would put his shoe in your door as you opened it. Except I could be face-to-face with a murderer and his cloak could be hiding a weapon.

I wanted to challenge my feelings, I wanted to stare down or even face his burning gaze, even though every part of my being screamed against it, it urged me to run away from him.

I couldn’t help it, I turned and ran. I bolted down Fifty-sixth Street as it was reasonably well lit. But I ran without a target, destination or plan, I just ran and shivered with every leaping step I took.